Outsider Observations
by Alabaster86
Summary: Set randomly anywhere in Seasons 4-7, Spike watches the other characters, making observations, some personal, some not, about them, their lives, their situations.
1. Chapter 1

_**Outsider Observations**_

_**#1: Need**_

"Bloody Slayer," Spike spat viciously. "Look what you've reduced me to."

He nervously paced the alley behind the Doublemeat Palace, taking deep drags on his cigarette, watching the smoke curl around his bleached blonde head before it drifted away in the faint breeze.

It wasn't Buffy's fault that the vampire was drawn to her so powerfully. Maybe it wasn't really her per se, but the humanity that she represented. Eh, but there were plenty of humans in Sunnydale besides Buffy Summers. So what was it about this girl? What made Spike dream the dreams that he did; tender, loving moments with Buffy, moments in which she looked to him with warmth in her eyes and caressed his cheek with those hands, hands that could hurt and hands that could soothe. What made him miss her when days passed and he caught not a glimpse?

Oh, he had it bad for the Slayer. There was no getting around it. Spike had little experience with love, whether as a human or as a vampire. He and Drusilla, his sire, his lover, had been close. But often he felt more like her caretaker or her nursemaid. For a vampire, she could be surprisingly fragile. And before he was turned, meek William only looked upon women from afar.

So, were his feelings for Buffy love? How could Spike tell? He had no guidelines, no treatise he could follow. He simply let his feelings wash over him, and _through_ him, intense, powerful and unrelenting things that they were.

Spike _did _know that his need to prowl the nighttime streets in search of her never let up. Foolish and neutered though he felt, the vampire sought her out anyway.

"Damn it," he cursed. "Just go inside you bleedin' idiot. She's not going to come looking for you."

Buffy had, in fact, looked for him a few times. But _she_ was seeking something different, an escape, and physical stimulation to replace the deadness she felt inside. Spike knew that well enough, though the reality hurt. But he provided what the Slayer needed. He let her use him and his body. She pounded it and pummeled it, desperate to feel. It shamed her, and that hurt Spike too. But he never turned her away. His own physical needs were far too great. And each of those visits served to feed his fantasies even more.

Grinding the cigarette out with his boot, Spike strode purposefully from the alley and around to the front of the fast food restaurant. His black leather duster moved sinuously about his legs. The coat, one of his oldest possessions, calmed Spike. Tucking his hands deep into its pockets, he took a long, unnecessary breath, and approached the huge window.

There she was, behind the counter, wearing that ridiculous uniform, striped shirt and stupid hat, phony smile plastered across her beautiful face, the face that he adored. As soon as the customer had been served, her smile vanished, leaving strain and misery behind. Spike's chest tightened. He wished that he could _really_ comfort her.

With a sigh, the vampire pushed the door open, cringing at the sound of the annoying little bell. Buffy spotted him and her face twisted into something different.

"Welcome to Doublemeat Palace." Her voice was dull and emotionless. "What can I get for you tonight?"

Spike glanced at the menu with his piercing blue eyes. "Whatever you recommend," he replied, smiling at her gently, hoping for a smile in return.

"Fine," she sighed heavily. "Doublemeat Medly; it's our most popular selection." She gave the order to the cooks and then turned her attention back to Spike. "My break is in half an hour. Take your burger and leave."

Spike paid, took the white bag and left, dropping the burger into the garbage on the way out. Back in the alley he waited again, tapping his foot impatiently and lighting another cigarette.


	2. Chapter 2

**Outsider Observations**

**_Chapter 2: Watching the Watcher_**

With the television off and 'Passions' over for another day, Spike had nothing to do but lay back in the cold bathtub, watch and listen to Giles putter about his huge apartment. 'Passions' was _infinitely_ more entertaining.

He could eat but that damnable Slayer and her even more damnable Watcher only fed him once a day; lukewarm pig's blood from that stupid yellow mug. 'Kiss the Librarian' indeed. Spike would like to do something other than kiss Giles. He'd like to rip his head from his shoulders and drink the fountain of blood that sprayed from the stump.

He licked his parched looking lips and rattled his manacles in frustration.

"**Hungry** in here," he shouted. One could always try. "Don't want me getting too bloody weak or I won't remember _anything_ about those soldier boys."

Giles sauntered into his bathroom and peered at the chipped vampire. He really did look sickly; paler than usual and quite thin. But the Watcher didn't care. He gave Spike a smug look.

"Did you just say something, make a demand perhaps?" The watcher leaned casually against the doorframe. "I think you're forgetting something about the captive/captor relationship, Spike. You can yell and whine and behave like a childish brat all you like. But you'll still be chained and stuck in that bathtub, while I can walk away and ignore you."

"Aww, come on, mate. Show us a little mercy, will you? Just half a mug full? A sip?" Spike stared pleadingly at Giles. He stopped short of batting his thick eyelashes. There was a limit after all, and even he had _some_ pride left.

The Watcher took off his glasses, put one end in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "Um, no. Nice try, though." Chuckling to himself, he wandered off to the kitchen to make a good, strong cup of tea.

"Bloody hell," the hungry vampire grumbled. He rattled his chains again, hoping that the noise would disturb the middle aged man.

In the bathroom mirror he caught glimpses of Giles as he wandered about his living room, straightening a book here, adjusting a chair there, while waiting for the kettle to boil. He hummed to himself, something archaic by the sounds of it and Spike rolled his eyes.

"Hey, how about some decent music?" he called. "You know something from _this _century."

Though he would never admit it, the melody Giles hummed reminded him far too much of his times as a human. He shuddered. Those were sad, pathetic days, twenty six wasted years. Shuddering again, he recalled dull days spent in the parlor with his mother, writing his poetry and pining for Cecily. He had spent most of his childhood and youth in that parlor _too_, at his mother's feet or by the fire, his nose in a book, friendless, mocked by his peers.

Of course, he was friendless _now_ too, but what self respecting vampire needed friends?

He stared balefully through the doorway and watched as Giles moved toward his record player.

"Oh, crap, he's going to play one of those God awful records now."

Looking very pleased indeed, Giles selected a particularly stuffy classical piece, foregoing his collection of rock from the 1960's and 1970's. The music filled the apartment, the strains of violin and cello making Spike grit his teeth together.

"Come on, Watcher; give a man a break, will you? How about some Ramones or the Clash? Hey do you have any New York Dolls?"

Giles poked his head in through the bathroom door once more and grinned. "As it happens I have many albums that you might like, but I won't play them for you. I feel like classical today." He grew serious looking then and Spike frowned in response. "You're_ not_ a man. You're a soulless demon making the most of this chip in your brain. None of us have forgotten that. So this poor, helpless Spike routine won't help you. And as soon as I can bloody well get rid of you, I will. I want my apartment back and I want my bloody shower back too."

The watcher turned on his heel and returned to his stereo. He put the volume up and prepared his tea.

"Yeah, well, you stink." Spike raised his voice, making certain that Giles could hear every word. "Is that why you never have any ladies coming 'round? When's the last time you had a good shag, Watcher, or any kind of shag for that matter? Ponces not popular these days? It's certainly not like you're too busy or anything. All you do is read and drink tea." He snickered and leaned back a bit, his head resting on the hard edge of the tub.

Spike knew that he had hit a nerve. The Watcher's breathing changed and his heart rate increased. Book man was angry. He listened intently as Giles stomped up the staircase and entered the sanctuary of his bedroom.

"Watcher, you left the record on! That could be classed as torture you know. I'll, I'll tell Buffy." That was a useless threat and Spike knew it. Buffy would only roll _her_ eyes and give him a smack.

The Watcher made no response. With nothing better to do, Spike closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He recalled those glory days in New York City, the 1970's, the decade of punk and the decade in which he had bagged his second Slayer. Those, those were good times. His memories, a strange mix of soothing and invigorating, were disturbed some minutes later by Giles gliding down the stairs and starting the record again.

Spike was certain he could hear the bastard laughing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Outsider Observations**

**Chapter 3: Nerd Studies 101**

"This_ really_ isn't necessary, you know," Spike sighed. "I can't bite you. How many times do I have to say it?"

"Yeah, yeah," Xander replied offhandedly as he wound the strong rope around the vampire. "You're impotent. I remember." The dark haired teen took particular delight in Spike's grimace. He tightened the knot, pulling with all his might. "You've been neutered, just like a family pet." Grinning, Xander turned back the covers of his bed and climbed in.

Spike retorted indignantly. "Hey, it's not like I can't perform sexually, you know. In fact, I can have my pick of women. Unlike you; you're bloody lucky Anya looks at you at all." He twisted in the red lounge chair trying to loosen the knots. "You've got Superman boxers on for pity's sake. Are you eighteen or six?"

"Sure, sure, pick of women; you're a real lady killer. Oh wait, you_ are_, or used to be at least." Xander reached for the lamp and turned the switch. Moonlight fought valiantly to penetrate the grime of the basement windows. He stretched out on his back, hands behind his head and gazed up at the ceiling. "And, I'll have you know, that Superman boxers are perfectly acceptable for men. Why else would they make them in my size?"

"Men," Spike scoffed. He stared at Xander, his enhanced vision giving him a clear view. The boy was asleep within minutes, snoring up a storm. "Oh, that's just great," the vampire groaned. "What the bloody hell did I do to deserve this?" He shrugged. Some folks would say he deserved much, much worse, of course. Most folks would, in fact.

The vampire wriggled again, trying to get comfortable. He should be out prowling the darkened streets of Sunnydale, seeking an unsuspecting victim (usually some idiot wandering about a back alley, taking a shortcut that would cost him his life), drinking hot blood fresh from the vein. There was nothing better really than that first draught of the red stuff; it stained his mouth and swam sweet and warm down his throat, giving him life and vitality and vigor. The craving was intense but so was the pain from the chip in his head, the chip that prevented him from biting.

"Sodding soldiers," he whispered, not wanting to awaken Xander. Much as he enjoyed irritating the boy, Spike had to live with him too. "Messing with my head, making me weak and dependent and…" Anger surged through the demon. "Bloody bastards will pay." He didn't know how or when, but they would. With that somewhat soothing thought, he fell into a fitful sort of slumber.

* * *

><p>Xander slammed his hand down on the cheap clock radio, stopping the strident alarm mid beep. He groaned and pulled the covers up over his head. He was not a morning person and had always hated waking up for school. Now it was a third rate job at a fast-food restaurant making breakfast sandwiches for people with <em>good<em> jobs.

"Rise and shine, loser boy," Spike called from his spot on the chair. "Don't want to be late for the office, now do you. Better get that suit and tie on." He chuckled to himself and watched as the young man struggled out of bed and then stumbled toward the bathroom.

"You know," Xander reminded Spike with a smirk. "I don't _have_ to untie you and I don't_ have_ to get you any blood. Bet you're hungry now, aren't you?"

"Yeah, yeah, I get the point. Big, tough Xander is in control. That must be a first." Spike rolled his eyes and settled back in the chair to wait. "Go on then; get your bloody shower. Don't let me stop you."

The vampire wriggled his left arm and tried to reach the remote that sat on the table beside him. Some television would help to pass the time at least. That failing, he attempted to shift the chair over a few inches instead. The remote was just out of reach now and Spike groaned in frustration. He had no choice but to wait.

A shout came from upstairs and something crashed to the floor, shattering. There was a shriek then and the sound of the front door slamming shut. Spike shook his head. It wasn't the first time he had borne witness to the misery of Xander's parents. A subdued weeping came next as the boy's mother swept up the mess.

"Miss me?" Xander asked cheekily when he stepped back into the main room. He was in fresh boxers and vigorously towel dried his thick, dark hair. He pointedly ignored the sound of crying. For years now, he had been exposed to the violent cycle of drunkenness and abuse that his parents seemed unable to break free of. He had been the focus of that violence too. And he no longer felt any warmth or compassion for either mother or father. He simply endured.

"I never miss your inane chatter. Would you untie me now?" The vampire viciously jerked his arms upward and the rope bit into his flesh.

Xander grabbed the shirt of his uniform and slipped his arms into the sleeves before slowly freeing Spike. "You can microwave your blood now." He waved his hand toward the old refrigerator. "Just make sure you stay down here while I'm at work." Shiftily, Xander glanced up the wooden steps and let his eyes linger on the firmly shut basement door for a moment. "My mother doesn't do well with surprises."

'Poor sod,' the vampire thought with a flash of empathy. 'If that's the way it was around home all the time, no wonder he's an insecure mess.' He might feel a bit of sympathy but he wasn't about to let Xander in on the secret. "So, how did she react to _you_?" he quipped. Lithely, with that grace special to vampires, he leapt from the chair and over to the fridge. The animal blood was in a plastic container, shoved to the back where it would least be noticed. He filled his mug, Xander's chipped least favorite, and zapped it warm. Within seconds he had guzzled it down. It did the job. It kept him alive, but nothing could ever replace human blood. _That _was satisfying.

"Do you even realize that you've eaten?" Xander watched the process with a combination of disgust and wonder.

"Kind of like you with pizza then," Spike retorted quickly. He leaned casually against the fridge and crossed his arms. Well developed muscles bulged in and around his snug fitting black tee shirt. "Speaking of, maybe you could bring one back later. I enjoy a slice now and again."

"Fork over some cash; minimum wage doesn't go far, you know." The young man placed his hand out.

Almost desperately, Spike rooted around in his pockets and came up with a very crumpled looking ten dollar bill. "It's my last."

Xander snatched the money and shoved it into the pocket of his pants, pants that were still folded over the couch. "I'll be sure to treat it with dignity then. I have to go." He pulled his uniform pants on, ran a hand through slightly damp hair and then grabbed his wallet. "Don't do anything stupid. Anya's coming by to check on you later."

"Well that's something to look forward to, isn't it?" Spike leered suggestively and got the expected and desired result.

"If you hurt her," Xander's face was deadly serious, his voice like cold steel, "I'll stake you myself, buddy. Don't you forget that….**ever**."

The vampire was impressed. If nothing else, Xander was loyal to and protective of the ones that he loved. Underneath the silliness and the seeming uselessness beat a noble sort of heart. Even Spike could appreciate that. But, like the empathy he had felt earlier, Spike had no intention of making Xander aware. Mocking the kid was far too much fun.

"Whatever," Spike finally replied, waving the threat aside. "Off with you now; can't be late or you won't be able to climb that corporate ladder. If you behave really well, they might make you manager of the morning shift." His voice oozed sarcasm and derision.

Xander didn't have time to rise to the bait. He climbed the stairs, giving the vampire one final look. "Don't touch my stuff either. I'll know if you have."

Spike pouted with perfect lips. "What? I can't play with Han Solo? Whatever will I do?"

"Solo is sacred," Xander shot over his shoulder before pushing the door open, stepping into the upstairs kitchen and locking the door behind him.

The basement apartment was suddenly very, very quiet. Spike sighed, picked up the remote and made himself comfortable on the couch. The noise of the television would have to do until Anya showed up. He was getting used to human company. That couldn't be a good thing, could it?


	4. Chapter 4

**A Model Buffy**

Sometimes when he stepped into the kitchen of the Summers' house, and she was there, her back to him, doing something at the sink perhaps or looking inquisitively inside the refrigerator, Spike_ almost_ believed that he was looking at Buffy, the _real_ Buffy. Long golden hair, like the Slayer's, flowed down her back, perfect and shiny. Her shape was the same, a tiny and delicate looking frame disguising a wealth of power. But when the Buffybot turned around and looked at Spike with those too bright eyes and spoke with that perpetually upbeat voice, all resemblance ended. _It_ was a robot, nothing more.

Her presence pained and soothed at the same time. Buffy was dead, but every day they heard a voice that sounded like hers and looked at the same pretty face. If you cut her open you would find wires and circuits instead of muscle and bone. Sparks flew when it was damaged. Blood did not flow. The Buffybot was the only thing keeping the world from knowing that the Slayer was dead. For that fact alone it was a treasure, something to be valued and taken care of. Everyone alternated between calling the Buffybot 'it' and 'she'. Her presence was confusing and profoundly moving. Occasionally Spike had the urge to smash the thing to bits, eradicate the reminder of Buffy from his life. But he knew that he hadn't the heart. It was originally _his_ after all.

* * *

><p>Spike himself had purchased her almost a year earlier from Warren. He hadn't thought of the implications then. Sometimes he wasn't good at thinking things through. The vampire, believing himself in love with the Slayer, and unable to touch and hold her like a man should touch and hold his woman, had simply put in an order for his own Buffy. It had come complete with all the programming he had requested of Warren, a genius at such things. And the Buffybot had been remarkable. For a time then too, he could almost believe that it was really Buffy he made love too, really Buffy who spoke <em>to<em> him and _of_ him with complete and vapid adoration. The robot had been the ultimate expression of his fantasy and Spike had enjoyed every minute with her. Somewhere deep down, he knew that it was wrong, what he had done. He had never thought of Buffy's reaction or her feelings. Then again, when had she ever considered his?

Eh, what did it matter now anyway? That machine and their memories were all Spike and Willow, Xander and Dawn, Giles, Tara and Anya had left of the Slayer. The rest was beneath six feet of dirt, wearing a frumpy dress inside a too expensive coffin that Giles had generously purchased. The funeral and their grieving had both been quiet and subdued. No one could make the association between Buffy Summers and the Slayer. No one could know the Slayer was dead. All hell, literally, would break loose, and Sunnydale, built over a hellmouth, would quickly become home to every demon imaginable. There was a time, not so very long ago, when Spike would have relished that possibility and loudly proclaimed the Slayer's death, had he discovered it. But he was different now or perhaps he had simply accepted his true nature.

"Spike, oh, Spike, I'm so happy to see you." The robot approached the vampire wearing a smile and the same pleated pink skirt she had come with. "Would you like breakfast? I'm making pancakes for everyone. I like to cook. It is fun."

"Yeah, well, no thanks." Spike frowned. The robot stubbornly hung on to its 'Spike is the entire world' programming despite the tinkering that Willow had done. Once its words of love had thrilled Spike; now they just hurt.

The smell of cooking pancakes filled the kitchen along with brilliant sunshine. Both belied the grief that hung like a thick shroud over the house. The robot, undeterred by Spike's refusal, piled some pancakes on a plate and smothered them with thick syrup.

"I know that you're a scary vampire and you drink blood. But I think you might like some pancakes anyway; here." Cheerfully she thrust the plate at Spike and watched while he obligingly picked at the stack, dipping his finger into the syrup and giving it a lick.

"Where's everybody? Still sleeping, are they?" Spike peered into the living room and listened carefully for any signs of stirring from Dawn or Willow or Tara.

"Yes, and what a nice surprise the pancakes will be." The robot set about making more.

Spike stared at her back once again. He sniffed the air. One thing Warren had not been able to duplicate was Buffy's scent; human, woman, Slayer. It had been intoxicating and simply recalling it made things start to happen down below.

"Damn it, Spike," he chastised himself. "Get a bloody hold of yourself. Slayer's dead and she's not coming back."

"Yes," the Buffybot agreed far too happily. "The Slayer is dead. But I can't say anything to anyone. I'm the Slayer now. Isn't that right, Spike?" She didn't bother to wait for a reply. "Oh, you look so handsome in that duster." He could swear that the robot swooned.

"Yeah, yeah." He brushed off the compliment. It made him uncomfortable. Spike was tempted to take off his duster and toss it over the back of a chair. But along with being a large part of his fashion statement, the black leather coat was a lifeline of sorts; it made him feel safe and secure. Sometimes now in the presence of the robot, he really needed that. "Look, I'm going to wait in the living room." Without a glance back, Spike strode into the next room and plopped down onto the sofa. He slouched casually and put his booted feet up onto the coffee table.

While he sat, startlingly blue eyes closed, Spike couldn't help but hear the Buffy replica busy itself in the kitchen, making stack after stack of pancakes. It always overdid everything. The sound of orange juice being poured into glasses came next and then the sound of water running.

"Maybe I should wake everyone before the food gets cold and the juice gets warm." The robot trotted up the stairs, smile still plastered on its face.

He _should_ have protested. The girls all loved their sleep after all and who knew what Willow and Tara might be getting up to. Spike's own lips curved upward a bit at the thought. He was happy for the pair. The relationship had changed both young women for the better and Buffy's death had brought them even closer. He hoped the bond would last. There was darkness enough in all their lives now. A little positivity and light was definitely a good thing. He shook his head then and wondered at William the Bloody, slayer of Slayers, contemplating such things. He really had changed since meeting Buffy and all of her friends. Something in him had shifted gradually. That shouldn't be possible for a 'soulless demon'. But it seemed as though he was some sort of exception rather than the rule.

* * *

><p>A few minutes later, a grumbling trio of girls followed the perky robot down the stairs. Willow and Tara, both tousle-haired, hands linked, spoke softly together once they had awakened a bit more. Dawn kept sneaking glances at the Buffybot. Her expression was heartbreaking; big blue eyes full of love, wistful twist to her mouth, hope that if she closed those eyes and opened them again, the real Buffy, her sister, would be back. Those hopes were continually dashed, naturally, and every time Spike saw the despair on the little bit's face, his own heart shattered.<p>

Best he could do was protect Dawn. Buffy would have wanted that. So the vampire threw himself into the role of caretaker with the intensity and vigor that he approached living with. She accepted his position in her daily life readily enough and trusted him with an ease that Spike as unused to. It was gratifying and a little bit overwhelming too. Dawn, this young human girl, ate with him, did homework with him, played games with him and watched films with him; never once did she turn questioning or doubtful eyes upon him. Spike hoped that he never betrayed that exquisite trust.

Giving his head a shake, he joined the girls in the kitchen.

"Morning," he greeted them all.

Tara stifled a yawn and gave him a shy smile while Willow grinned around her mouthful of pancake.

"Spike!" Dawn exclaimed. "I didn't see you."

"Oh, he's been here for awhile," the Buffybot informed her. "He already had pancakes."

"Really, pancakes, huh?" Willow smirked at Spike then. "Seems rather un-vampire-y."

"You needn't worry about what I eat, Red." He itched to light a cigarette but did not want to invite the wrath of the young women. And the bright morning sunlight dissuaded him from going outside. Pushing aside the urge, he sat down beside Dawn and watched her dig into breakfast.

"As long as you're not eating people, I don't really care," the witch responded affably.

The Buffybot defended the vampire almost instantly. "Spike's being a good vampire, aren't you Spike?" She moved around the kitchen island and placed a hand on the vampire's shoulder.

"Not doing much for my reputation as a demon, all this talk of goodness," he griped ineffectually. Really, he didn't mind at all. The hand on his shoulder felt heavy, though, and he shrugged it off. "So, what are the plans for today then?"

"I wanted to tweak her programming a bit more," Willow stated, glancing pointedly at the robot. "There are still a few glitches."

Dawn looked down at her plate. Spike reached over, letting his hand hover over hers before retracting it again. A silence fell over the kitchen, a silence finally broken by the model Buffy.

"Anyone for more pancakes?"


End file.
